


Alive

by joypendants



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask
Genre: Not Beta Read, POV Second Person, There are mentions of blood, anyway fd is a little shit, but its not graphic, return of the deity body snatchers or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joypendants/pseuds/joypendants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are alive, and they cannot take that from you. You are not a tool. You are alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> so i had an idea that the masks in majora's mask are sentient still, aaand that the fierce deity mask is more sentient and powerful than the other ones. this is based off of that idea –– also a warm-up piece i wrote before throwing myself into term papers uuuugh,, it's not proofread, so if there are any errors, that's all on me.

Blood tastes sweet.

That is a truth. Universal, something that cannot be denied.

Blood tastes sweet. 

It tastes sickly, like an illness, like rotting flowers, and you love it. It reminds you that you’re alive. You’re alive, for this moment –– you are here, you are real, you are a person. No one can tell you otherwise, because God, there is blood in your mouth and it is _yours._

Blood tastes sweet, because you can taste it. God, you can taste it, you can taste something for the first time in years. 

Blood tastes sweet, and oxygen tastes bitter. You are here, you are alive, for the first time in years. Air rasps in your throat, in your lungs (in and out in and out), and you remember how it was to breathe, to feel your heart pumping blood (sweet, sweet, sweet), to be able to move and God, you have never felt so electric. 

You never realized how much you wanted to be alive until you were dead. 

You spit out a mouthful of blood, sword in hand, and you _grin_. Is it a grin? No, it is all teeth, teeth bared at your enemy, at the night sky, and the moon and the stars and everything in between. This is your battle cry: this is your war-hymn. 

This is you, alive, here, and you are not going anywhere.

You forgot how good the ache of sore muscles felt –– you forgot how it felt to be alive. You are here, you are here, you are here, and you do not want to go anywhere else. You would not trade this for the world. Dead lungs inhale, exhale, inhale again, and you let out a battle-cry, the sound rough and hoarse and ripped from your throat with a harsh brutality. You taste blood, you taste dirt, and you revel in it. You are exuberant, ecstatic, and you are horribly, beautifully, alive. For the first time in Good knows how long, you are alive, and nothing can take this away from you.

You tower, and they cower before you. Metal clinks when you walk –– you can almost feel the earth shake beneath your feet. Once, you were feared. Once, you were a god among mortals, feared warrior, worshipped deity. Now, you are simply a tool to be used––

Or so they think.

You bow to no one, not even a ‘hero of legend’.

You are a god. He should bow to you. He will bow to you. 

You twist your sword in your grasp, bare bloodied teeth at the grimacing moon, and you let your muscles sing, hum, with tension. _Let’s finish this,_ you growl, and you launch yourself forward in a flurry of motion, double helix slashing and tearing. You revel in the bloodshed, in the death –– you are alive, alive, alive, and they are not. You are here, and they cannot remove you so easily as they did before. You will not be trapped, you will not be contained: you are a force of nature, and they should all fear you.

They will all fear you.

You have claimed this body for yourself. 

**fin.**


End file.
